Villains by Necessity
by TerrifyingSpaceMonkeys
Summary: The King of Shadows has been defeated, but a new evil looms on the horizon. Bishop, rescued by the Knight Captain from certain death, finds himself once more in debt. Can they work together to forge a new beginning, or does betrayal run too deep?
1. Welcoming Darkness

Something small and hard slammed into Bishop's chest, jolting him from his pleasant slide into the welcoming darkness. He was vaguely aware that he was sprawled uncomfortably on wet grass, and the air was chilly on his sweat-soaked skin. He should have expected it, really, that he wouldn't even be allowed to die on his own terms. He was tempted to fight his way back to consciousness just to flay the person currently shouting in his ear, but that plan was somewhat dampened by the inability to lift his arms.

"You can't die on me now, you bastard!"

Another thump, and was that one of his ribs cracking? Lovely. If he did live, it would be weeks before he could give his unwelcome savior a proper thrashing.

"Not like this, and not until you tell me _why-"_

The next strike forced a rush of air from Bishop's lungs, and he spent the long moment while his body relearned how to breathe composing a scathing invective. It was rather alarming that he still couldn't move his right arm, but no sense wasting a perfectly good opportunity for verbal abuse. He opened his mouth and was promptly overcome by a fit of coughing.

The air was thick and damp, and he could imagine it coating his lungs, thwarting his efforts to draw breath. It tasted of vegetation and decay, and he could hear the trickle of water and the skittering of some small creature through the brush. It was completely at odds with his last memory, all enclosed darkness and falling rock. How had he ended up in a swamp?

"Easy," the voice said, softer but still with an undercurrent of irritation. His rescuer leaned closer, and now Bishop could smell leather. Well-worn, not creaking but rasping softly. Underneath was the coppery bite of blood. Was it his, or was this person also injured? "You've inhaled a lot of dust."

It was familiar, that voice, but more unmistakable was the frustrated tone. He forced his eyes open, choking out a bitter laugh when his vision swam into focus.

He'd spent a great deal of time fantasizing about the vivid green eyes that stared back at him. Glassy and lifeless as blood poured from her slit throat. Wild and burning as he took her against a wall or over an ale-stained table. The most appealing notion was some combination of the two, where he'd have his pleasure and then dispatch her at her most vulnerable. Sadly, their current position – her lithe frame straddling his hips while she attempted to pound the life back into him – was as close as he'd ever gotten.

At the moment, those eyes were filled with exhaustion and anger, and Bishop wondered if she'd saved him from the cave-in simply so she could kill him herself. The day before, he would have said she didn't have it in her, but now she looked wild, nearly feral. Spatters of blood lent gruesome highlights to her silvery hair, and her normally dusky skin was painted gray with rock dust. If there was ever a moment where he could push her past endurance, this would be it. So the question was, did he try to defuse the situation or provoke her? Live or die?

"Well, if it isn't Eowen Swift," Bishop drawled. "Shard Bearer, Knight Captain, and...what? Champion of murderous traitors?"

Though he was primarily trying to get under her skin, it was a valid question. Why had she saved him? He doubted she had any absurd notions of making him stand trial, and she had yet to reach for the rapier secured at her side. Blackmail? Would she take a page from her drunken uncle's book and proclaim herself his newest master? Better that he die. He gazed at her scowling face, still hovering above his own, and was struck by inspiration.

"Ah, I see." He ground his hips upward, nearly unseating her, and she clutched his arm to keep her balance. He bit his tongue to hold back a hiss. Definitely broken, then. At least the lower half of his body still worked. "Now that your precious paladin is so much mincemeat, you thought you'd try a real man. Of course, you'll have to do most of the work, but I could-"

In one fluid movement, the hand clutching his broken arm wrenched suddenly, and an armored knee connected with his groin. White-hot pain blurred his vision, and when she spoke, her words came as though from a great distance. "I know what you're trying to do, Bishop, and it's not going to work."

And that was the greatest of the many irritating things about this woman – always so certain she knew what he was thinking, even when _he_ wasn't sure. He opened his mouth to point this out, but unleashed only a pained gasp.

She barreled on, regardless. "If I was going to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago, and I wouldn't have bothered saving you from that chamber."

"Why...save me?" Bishop managed. She sat back on her heels to consider him, finally relieving the pressure between his legs, and he stifled a sigh of relief. "And how did you know I was still in there?"

"I've become rather accustomed to knowing where you are, in the event that you decide to sink a knife into my back."

There was no accusation in the words; she simply spoke them as fact, as though she accepted the idea that he might kill her at any moment. Had she been expecting his betrayal? She was certainly clever enough to have seen it coming, though she also possessed an idiotic tendency to allow people second chances.

"As for why," Eowen continued thoughtfully, "I think we'll leave that for another time. Maybe when you're ready to tell me why you stepped aside and didn't fight us."

He flinched involuntarily. That was not a conversation he wanted to have now, or ever. He was supposed to be dead, ensuring she would have no way of prying yet more secrets from his lips. And she would, he had no doubt. She was small, even for a half-drow, and he should have been able to snap her in half. Yet, somehow, she had proven to be the most formidable, infuriating damned woman he'd ever met.

"Now," she said, tugging gently on his uninjured arm to maneuver him upright. "Let's see what we can do about that arm. And then-" She smiled, and it was both captivating and terrifying. "I have a task for you."


	2. A New Debt

Craack.

Eowen cursed under her breath as the bones in Bishop's arm moved, but did not set. Ignoring the ranger as best she could, she pushed inward on his arm, feeling the jagged edges within.

Bishop's amber eyes bored into her. "If your intent is to leave me without an arm, by all means proceed." But he didn't move away.

She didn't respond. She had to listen for just the right... Abruptly, she pulled up on his wrist, twisted slightly, then released.

Crrick. Click.

Finally. Dragging dirt across sweat, Eowen wiped a hand over her brow, studiously keeping her expression neutral. She could feel him still watching her. The bastard hadn't made a single sound of discomfort. As she pulled the bandages from her pack, she allowed herself to meet his gaze and smiled. There was pain in those feral depths. _So he _did_ feel something other than contempt. Interesting._

It didn't last long enough. As his smirk returned, she was sorely tempted to just toss the roll at him, leaving him to fix his own arm, but it would take longer and she was anxious to be moving. "I suppose you would rather have Casavir tend your wounds, then?" Eowen stated as she coiled the bandage around his arm.

"The only thing the _paladin _is tending," Bishop flexed his fingers, "are the worms below his rotting corpse."

Eowen swallowed. So he was dead then. The last few seconds of the cave-in rushed down upon her: Elanee shouting, Sand chanting, Khelgar roaring, and the pathetic little squeak Grobnar made... Were they all dead? She turned a gaze of steel upon the ranger. "Tell me what you know."

"What? Miss the show in your hurry to get to me? Pity." Bishop pulled his arm from her grasp and, as though it didn't hurt him at all, raised it behind his head.

She didn't miss the stutter in his movement or the way his fingers clenched the back of his head for support through his wild dark mess of hair, but she wasn't going to get anywhere by pushing. "So it would seem." Eowen stood, surveying their location as she kept half an eye on the wolfish man at her side.

Bishop coughed as he stood. Small bits of rock tumbled from the remains of his leathers. The fact that she could hear him approach told Eowen that either he was more gravely injured than she had suspected or that the lack of attention she was paying his jibe had indeed irked him. When he spoke, she had her answer. "I think you would have liked it. A hero to the end, holding up a mountain while the innocents escaped to freedom. Problem was, nobody made it through in time. Guess he just wasn't as mighty as he'd thought."

They were in the Mere. That much was certain, but several days' travel from West Harbor... if there was a reason to go there at all. The words 'nobody made it through' repeated in her mind as she pushed against the graphic images that were forming. It was... [_Casavir's crushed body]_... only a half day's hike to... _[Qara's blood trickling over her hands]_... the spot she'd favored when a day's hunt had run too late to return home. She closed her eyes briefly as the ranger's shadow fell before her, marking both his considerable height advantage and the direction of the sun. "And the others?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no tales," the ranger sneered.

Funny thing with Bishop. The character he normally affected took the same tone as an average person would when in pain or extreme frustration. Eowen assumed he was always in both, but it made it difficult to tell the extent of his present injuries. "So you saw nothing, then."

He shrugged. "Think that if it helps you sleep at night." Then he raised his good arm toward the horizon. "Your Keep is that way, _Knight-Captain_."

Eowen looked back at the rubble. The urge to scour the remains for her companions was strong, but even she had to admit that if they hadn't gotten out of there, they were now dead. And she didn't see anyone else lingering around the periphery of the disaster. No, she had to move forward. "I am not going to Crossroad Keep." _Yet._ She found the ranger's eyes then and looked into them with the same determination she'd once used on a dire wolf she'd been about to train. "_We_ are going to camp on Farlowe's Ridge."

"As tempting as that might be-"

"You _owe_ me, Bishop. Every step you take from this point forward is because of me." If all Eowen had needed was the ranger's skills, she might have merely commissioned his service, but there was too much history between them to leave it simply at that. She thought about the three healing potions concealed in her pack as she watched him pretend he wasn't struggling to take in a good breath of air then smiled. "Besides, wasn't it you who suggested we find some hidden trail somewhere and camp for a year or two?"

He didn't respond for a time. Instead, his gaze seemed to gather heat until the look he returned threatened to consume her. "Well if _that's_ what you wanted, all you had to do was say so."

It wasn't. Ignoring the warmth that encircled her spine and gave a good, hard, shivery tug, Eowen began their trek. It took considerable will to knowingly put the traitorous ranger at her back, but she managed. And whether he told himself it was to bed her or because of some due debt, she knew he would follow.

In time, he passed her. Even injured, the man moved like he belonged in the wild, deftly avoiding the serpents that slithered past and ducking the thin strands of spider webs that stretched from vine to vine long before most humans would have even thought to take notice. He was totally absorbed by the land and being honest within the quiet between them, Eowen respected Bishop for leaving the beautiful silken strands untouched where others might have barreled through.

It was the mud that gave him the most trouble. The extra effort he put into pulling his boots from the sticky muck that threatened to entomb his feet gave Eowen a stunning view of his lithe calves and thighs. The leather surrounding them was coated with so much filth by this point that the ranger looked nearly nude from the waist down, though a few shades darker than he should have been. It was when dusk fell and the twilight mists wrapped him in gray shadow that the resemblance to one of her own kind became truly eerie and, though she'd never been to the Underdark, she felt its call all the same. It reached out and compelled her to whip this man before her. Fortunately, she had no such implement. What scared her the most was the lack of a human response deep within.

She was searching for it, wondering if it had died in that cavern, sacrificed for a man who had deserved to die, when that man turned to her. The gold in his eyes glittered like Shar's celestial sister, but what he said was anything but comforting.

"There are orcs on the ridge."


End file.
